


i'm always overthinkin' (me and you)

by goingaftercacciato



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Emma Garland Is A Good Friend and A Great Wingwoman, First Kiss, Freddie...I'm Sorry You're Barely In Here, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, IDK There's Probably More I Should Tag But Oh Well, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Day I'll Write A Fic Where You Actually Have Something to Do, Sharing a Bed, Toby Is Bad At Dealing With His Emotions; That's What Alcohol Is For, Two Idiots Blatantly Flirting With Each Other and Still Thinking Their Feelings Are Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27055063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingaftercacciato/pseuds/goingaftercacciato
Summary: It’s a testament to just how hellish his Trinity Term had been that, when Toby arrives on the front steps of The Halcyon, the standard dread that creeps up in his stomach is almost entirely overshadowed by an unprecedented, sweeping sense of relief that shears the built-up tension from his shoulders and nearly brings him to his knees.Two months. Two whole, beautiful months of unregimented time. Time to relax. Time to breathe. Time to live like a human being again instead of splitting his life between attending dull, draconian classes and puttering around in a despicably unkempt, lonely cave of a flat, sustaining himself on bland coffee and desperation while he drowns in the neverending stream of bulky assignments that clutter his desk.
Relationships: Emma Garland/Freddie Hamilton (Mentioned), Toby Hamilton & Emma Garland, Toby Hamilton & Freddie Hamilton, Toby Hamilton & Lady Priscilla Hamilton, Toby Hamilton/Adil Joshi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	i'm always overthinkin' (me and you)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay...I can't even begin to explain this one. All I remember is that I saw one (1) picture of Mr. Bluemel with longer hair, and suddenly I had 17k of straight-up nonsense written. But, hey, at least it's not another canon divergence fic, I'm diversifying my portfolio.
> 
> First Disclaimer: The most I've ever had to drink is like one mixed drink and one shot of Fireball, so I have no idea what being _really_ drunk is like, so the descriptions of drunkness are probably...Not It. Sorry, just bear with me. Second Disclaimer: I imagined this to be set like a month after ol' Lawrence kicks the bucket, so Toby's relationships with his mother and Freddie are still kinda rough at this point, at least from his perspective; basically, I kinda based his attitude towards his family in this fic on how he was in episode two... Third Declaimer: I warned y'all this is trashy, so...Just be prepared for that.
> 
> Oh, also, I stole Priscilla's maiden name from the discord discussion, sorry not sorry.
> 
> Title from Carly Bannister's "Overthinkin'" which is The Modern Day Mutual Pining Adoby Bop™.

It’s a testament to just how hellish his Trinity Term had been that, when Toby arrives on the front steps of The Halcyon, the standard dread that creeps up in his stomach is almost entirely overshadowed by an unprecedented, sweeping sense of relief that shears the built-up tension from his shoulders and nearly brings him to his knees. 

Two months. Two whole, beautiful months of unregimented time. Time to relax. Time to breathe. Time to live like a human being again instead of splitting his life between attending dull, draconian classes and puttering around in a despicably unkempt, lonely cave of a flat, sustaining himself on bland coffee and desperation while he drowns in the neverending stream of bulky assignments that clutter his desk.

Smiling at the thought, he hikes his bag up higher and pushes himself up the wide stairs. It’s not an easy task given the unfortunate combination of his book-laden luggage and his decidedly academic muscularity, but Feldman is squeezing out the door and directing a couple of bright-eyed bellboys to pilfer Toby’s bags before he’s even summited two steps. Toby gives his things over into their fumbling hands with pathetically little fight, keeping only his shabby satchel strapped over his shoulder. 

“Mr. Hamilton! Welcome home, sir! Good to have you back!” The greeting is practised but genuine, complete with a hearty handshake, and though Toby cringes a bit at the formality, he knows it’s only for show in front of the bellboys. 

“Good to be back, Mr. Feldman,” he says and means it for what is probably the first time in his life. Perhaps now, with his father gone…He doesn’t dare even give thought to that hope.

“We weren’t expecting you until this evening.” 

It’s both an apology and an excuse. They would have had plans for his arrival, of course. They would have met him at the kerb as he stepped out from his cab, welcoming him home with the proper, subdued pomp and circumstance, hailing him as if he were a solemn hero on the final stop of his victory tour. 

His mother always insisted on such fanfare. An elaborate show of love and joy in public to hold up the charade and momentarily distract from the distant frost that had always fizzled between them in private. Toby sends up a grateful prayer to whoever may be listening for allowing him to escape the spectacle this time around; he’s far too wrung out to posture so preposterously at the moment.

Toby shrugs and follows Feldman through the imposing door and into the still, chilled air of the lobby. No matter how many times he’s come back, he’s still struck by it: the way time seems to cut out at the threshold, decades falling away to pristine polished marble and deco decor that show no hint of their age and pay no heed to the racing modernity outside their walls. It’s an entirely different world inside The Halcyon, a moment of the past caught and preserved under his mother’s watchful eye, like a plant stunted in amber. It doesn’t allow its guests to forget what it has seen, what it has withstood and rebuilt from, and the weight of its history sits in the reverent hush that consumes the cavernous room.

It’s only after the brief stupefaction has worn off that Toby realises he probably ought to give Feldman a verbal answer to his unasked question.

“I found my way onto an earlier train,” he says by way of explanation. 

Technically, that’s not a lie, even if it is far from the full truth. He’s just left out the bit about rarely seeing anyone outside of his classmates and his professors for the past eight weeks, spending his time caked in books and numbers and finding an alarming quantity of dissertation drafts residing where his already-measly social life used to be; about practically being able to _feel_ himself going batty, sitting about in that cold, empty flat with nothing but his own lacklustre company and a terribly unfinished document looming impatiently on his laptop; about not being able to stand it for another minute and booking a new ticket on the earliest train out despite the extra thirty pounds it cost him.

With Toby trailing behind, Feldman toddles over to the front desk while the bellboys scuttle up the stairs ahead of them; a twinge of guilt elbows Toby in the stomach as he watches them go, red-faced and straining against his suitcases. Perhaps he ought not have brought so many books along. After all, the Mayfair Library is nought but a five-minute walk from the hotel, and surely he’ll be looking for any excuse to duck away before long.

Toby’s attention is abruptly drawn back by a slight ruckus from the direction of the bar: the tinny jostle of liquor bottles knocking together and a sweet, familiar voice patiently instructing someone to be a bit more careful. He can’t see much of the bar from where he’s standing—just the empty booths and deserted tables, oddly cold in the wash of the midmorning light—and there’s no subtle way to get a peek in, no matter how much he desperately wants to march right in there. It’ll have to wait. Which, admittedly, is probably for the best; he really ought to practise a few clever lines before he goes charging in.

“Here you are, Mr. Hamilton.” 

Toby pulls his eyes away from the bar and blinks dumbly at the receptionist holding out her hand in front of him. He doesn’t recognise her, but he knows who she must be: Emma’s hand-selected replacement, brought in a few months back after a lengthy search and interview process that Emma had kept him thoroughly up-to-date on through an endless stream of more or less agitated texts. Her presence is a potent reminder of just how long he’s been away, having spent his winter and spring breaks in Oxford. He’d half expected to be greeted by Emma. Though he knows she hardly belongs behind the desk now that she’s appropriately been made Assistant Manager, the disappointment still stings.

When Toby doesn’t respond, the receptionist—Rasima, her nameplate says—lifts her hand a bit higher, jingling the key for emphasis. “Sir?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Thank you.” 

Cheeks burning, he takes the key, and with one last useless glance towards the bar, he bids Rasima and Feldman a good day and hurries off up the stairs.

“Your mother will be taking tea at noon, sir,” Feldman calls after him, his tone pointed so heavily that Toby would have to be completely oblivious to miss his meaning. Toby stops just long enough to throw a mock salute back to him, then scrambles around the corner.

After fumbling over a few pounds for each of the lingering bellboys, he closes the door with a heavy thud and lets himself slump against it as his eyes cast about the room. He’s happy to find that it appears blessedly unchanged from his last stay. Every little trinket exactly in its place, nothing lost to the carelessness of the guests who had come and gone, making the room briefly theirs in his absence. It seems, in fact, almost as if the room has been locked up and set aside to await his long-delayed return.

He shrugs off his bag, dumping it on the desk that will soon enough be swallowed by his semi-organised parade of papers, and makes his way to the nearest window. He twitches the gauzy, purely decorative curtain aside and peers down at the street not so far below. The people, wobbly and distorted through the old warped glass, move about with purpose and focus, no time to linger in the increasingly sticky heat. The trees explode from the banal sidewalk, throwing up their over-green, jittery fingers to the lacklustre wind. Up above, the clouds hover like unlucky ships dropped in the doldrums, their bellies swollen and stretched and growing grey against the violently blue sky.

It’s shaping up to be a rather heavenly summer.

Toby groans and pulls the curtains shut tight. 

It hardly helps.

With what little time he has before word of his arrival reaches his mother and she politely demands his presence, he figures he might as well do what he can to get unpacked. He lugs his suitcases over to the bed, flings them open, and…stares morosely at the contents as he attempts, not for the first time, to will his clothes to simply rise up and tuck themselves away in the wardrobe. He, unfortunately, fails.

It seems rather remiss to disturb them, tidy and carefully folded as they are. He did spend a good bit of time packing them away the night before, and he has to wonder if it wouldn’t simply be better to leave them where they lie and live out of his suitcase for the next two months, ready to pick up and run the moment he’s had his fill. But, as is typical, his need for precision wins out over his lethargy, and he draws a stack of trousers from the first bag. 

He’s only managed to sort out a quarter of his belongings when he catches sight of the clock on the bedside table, its hands already ticking well past noon. With a few muttered curses, he shoves his shoes back on and snatches his key from the desk. He had planned on showering, or the very least changing into something marginally more fashionable and formal, but if he keeps his mother waiting any longer, he’ll be peppered with passive-aggressive guilt-trips for weeks to come; he’d much rather deal with a few snippy comments about his appearance over tea and have done with it, so he locks his door behind him and clambers down the stairs as quickly as he can without drawing any undue attention to himself.

He’s fifteen minutes late. The pitiful look on the maître d’s face as he juts a helpful, directive thumb over his shoulder is less than reassuring and more than enough to let Toby know that he’s going to be in for a bit of damage control. His mother is stationed, in all her ridiculous regalia, at the centre of the room; she is made up as if she’s expected at Buckingham Palace within the hour, and her fat jewellery gleams in the filtered sunlight as she flips the wispy pages of her book. Wellington sits at her feet, imperial and imposing, and she sips at her tea with a degree of contrived insouciance that practically begs for the room’s undivided attention. Toby will never understand why she didn’t ever try her hand at being an actress; she would have fit right in on the West End.

“It’s remarkable really,” she says, detached and haughty, as he draws up to her table; she doesn’t even bother to glance up from her book. “You’ve managed to be both four hours early and fifteen minutes late.”

 _Home sweet home_.

“Always lovely to see you, Mother.”

She inclines her head just so, eyes still glued to the page, and Toby grits his teeth, but, like the polite, obedient son he is, he bends down and drops an empty kiss on her powdery cheek before taking the seat across from her. Wellington breaks momentarily from his post to sniff tepidly at the knee of Toby’s trousers but pays him no further mind. It’s truly a rousingly warm welcome all around.

“I wish I could say the same of you.” 

His mother finally slips a bookmark between her pages and snaps the book shut with a dull _thwap_. The full brunt of her critical gaze hits him, and he shifts in his seat, intimately aware of every last wrinkle creasing his shirt. 

“Honestly, dear, when was the last time you actually took care of yourself?” She asks, voice saturated with a mockery of parental concern as her eyes flicker from his clothes to his hair to the bruise-deep bags now permanently stamped beneath his eyes. “You look positively ghastly, Toby.”

After twenty-four years, he ought to have developed a thicker skin, ought to be able to let the little disparaging comments roll right off his back without a second thought. But the barbs sink just as deep as they ever did, and he can’t keep the grimace off his face. 

“Thank you, Mother.” Gingerly, he lifts the silver kettle from the centre of the table and pours himself a shallow cup. “I don’t imagine Freddie will be joining us?”

Frowning, his mother pushes the dainty creamer across to him. “Of course not. _Lord Hamilton_ is far too busy these days.”

Toby pauses as he reaches for the creamer; for once, he’s not entirely sure who the bitterness in her voice is for: him or Freddie. _Probably both and maybe even bit for Father_ , he decides and drowns his tea in cream. He reaches for the sugar pot next.

“How unfortunate for him.” 

As much as he may envy his brother at times, the responsibility of lordship is a burden Toby is more than happy to have been passed over for. He much prefers his place in the shadows, courting numbers rather than morally despicable diplomats.

“Well, tell me then…” With stiff, plum-purple manicured fingers, she smooths away a ripple in the tablecloth, then meets Toby’s eyes expectantly. “How have you been? How was your term? Anything I ought to know about?” 

Her words are as clear and crisp as ever, but Toby can’t make any sense of them; she may as well have spoken in Latin. The semblance of interest is unmistakably foreign on her tongue, out of place and ill-fitting and so entirely unlike his mother. Brows furrowed, he stares at her, holding a heaping spoonful of sugar frozen over his cup. 

Against his disbelief, she grows defensive, her chin held high. “What? Can’t a mother ask after her son’s life?”

“You never have before.”

“Well, I am now.”

Toby hadn’t really considered, in the month since his father died, what would become of his mother. Though she was never what one would call passive, he often forgets that she was just as bound by and smothered beneath the laws of Lawrence Hamilton as he was. Though, she had come to accept it in a way that he never had. Once she and his father had married, she had ceased to be Priscilla Marie Shard; she had been devoured by the title: _Lady Hamilton_ , subsumed, taken as a mere extension of her husband and fixed firmly at his side at all times. Well, _almost_ all times, aside from when he was off galavanting with women half his age. After thirty long years of living as an unloved trophy, Toby can’t imagine how difficult it must be for his mother to exist again, to rebuild herself when her autonomy has been so thoroughly erased in every way. 

She must be frighteningly lost, without someone there to inform her of what she ought to be doing every moment of the day, and she must be excruciatingly bored, without Freddie there to fuss over. That’s where he comes in, Toby supposes. Perhaps he can indulge her.

“I’m doing well.”

“Oh? Is that why you look as if you’ve forgotten what a shower is?” She raises her brows, dark lips pursed over the rim of her cup.

 _Perhaps not_.

“Freddie’s not the only one who’s been rather occupied as of late.”

She nods in concession, sympathetic. “You’ll remember, dear, I did try to dissuade you from throwing yourself away on such a menial life.” She pats his hand with a degree of condescendence that Toby previously wouldn’t have thought humanly possible. “If only you had listened.”

And just like that, she swiftly steps away from Toby’s troubles and launches into her own lengthy story about the Ashworth’s. Apparently, their daughter is getting married to some respectable military man, and it would be nothing short of an intolerable insult if they were to choose to have the reception anywhere but The Halcyon. Not that she should be surprised if they did, of course. She used to count them among her closest friends, and yet, since his father’s funeral, she’s not heard a word from them.

As he nods along and sips at his despicably lukewarm tea, Toby, stupidly, gives his mind leave to wander where it will; it immediately begins combing through the long list of unpleasant responsibilities awaiting him in the coming months and his final academic year. At the very least, his training course is behind him, and he can breathe a bit easier knowing that he’ll never have to stand in front of a room of sleep-deprived, judgmental undergrads and lecture them on the most mind-numbingly dull principles of mathematics again. Unless, of course, he fails to secure a steady research position in the next nine months or fails to properly defend his dissertation or fails to even complete his dissertation or--

Before he can tumble any further down that dreary path, he shuts his mind off and, with some effort, tunes back into his mother. He instantly regrets it.

“The Buchanan’s will be staying with us in two weeks’ time. And…” An unnerving smirk rises on her lips. “I’ve heard their daughter Theresa is rather _keen_ to make your acquaintance.”

Despite his best attempt to smile and disguise how uncomfortable the mere suggestion makes him, he’s sure the face he makes is more that of a man who has just swallowed something entirely disagreeable, as opposed to the face of a heterosexual man eager about the prospect of a date.

“I think you two will really hit it off,” his mother says with far too much confidence considering not only that has she never met the Buchanan’s daughter but also that Toby has never shown even the slightest bit of interest in a single one of the steady stream of girls she has wrangled him into spending an evening with since he was fourteen.

He sighs. “I’m sure you do.”

\---

When his mother’s stories finally totter off and the tea runs dry, Toby doesn’t hesitate in making his overdue escape. Polite as ever, he folds his napkin on the table, thanks her for the enthralling conversation, and leaves the room, slow and deliberate. But the second he steps into the hallway, he throws off decorum entirely and makes a beeline for the bar, very much in need of a stiff drink. 

_Or a cute barman_ , his mind supplies, rather unhelpfully.

He shakes the thought away, though he knows it to be uncomfortably true. He doesn’t especially like alcohol; he partakes in it from time to time, but he doesn't typically seek it out or find it particularly appealing in any capacity, all too well aware of the pitfalls that come with it. And bars and pubs are not exactly comfortable spaces for him, reserved and anxious as he tends to be. But one summer, a few years back, he returned home from university and saw Adil Joshi stationed behind the counter—radiant and regal in his stiff uniform, throwing out honey-sweet warmth to everyone fortunate enough to be in his vicinity.

That first night, from the moment Toby had approached the bar, Adil had spoken to him as if they were old friends, as if they’d always known each other; he had teased Toby playfully and laughed at all his ridiculous attempts at humour and listened earnestly to every bit of nonsense Toby’s mouth spit out in a desperate bid to keep his attention. Of course, at the time, Toby hadn't been able to identify the tender ache in his chest for what it was, but by the end of the night, after nearly three hours, he had hardly even finished one drink, and he was entirely, hopelessly charmed.

Ever since, Toby has found himself in the bar, sipping on a single glass of whiskey for hours, far too often to be innocently explained away by happenstance.

His heart is already kicking up a storm by the time he peeks around the doors, and it jumps into his throat when his eyes land on Adil, wiping down the bar with practised motions and single-minded focus. Apart from him, the bar is empty, quiet but for the soft melody filtering out from the hidden speakers. With a deep breath that does nothing to calm the flutter in his chest in the slightest, Toby pushes himself through the door.

Adil glances up as Toby approaches, and that wonderfully charming smile of his springs up in an instant. It almost stops Toby in his tracks. Somehow, he always forgets just how unbelievably beautiful Adil is, like his mind simply isn’t capable of capturing him in all his perfect detail; seeing him again, having his attention, is a pleasant punch in the gut, and he lets a smile of his own—shyer, less dazzling—curl up on his lips.

Until, that is, Adil’s smile dissolves into gentle laughter, his eyes flicking away from Toby as he tries to hold it back. Settling himself at the centre of the deserted counter, Toby gives Adil an exaggerated frown, a dead-on mockery of uppity indignation. 

“And what, might I ask, is so funny, Mr. Joshi?” 

“Your hair,” Adil says without missing a beat. “It’s gotten so long.” 

Toby ducks his head, catching his reflection in the mirrored countertop. He has always kept his hair a tad on the longer side. Perhaps because he recognised his parents’ distaste for it and wanted to be uselessly contrary. Perhaps because he needed something to give him a semblance of separation from Freddie. Perhaps because he just liked it that way. But Adil is right; even by his own standards, he has let it go a good bit in the past two months. 

Despite disregarding her opinion on the length, Toby has, in the past, rather religiously followed his mother’s strict seven-week cut schedule that she implemented when he and Freddie were children (read: her little show-ponies). At this point, he’s more than five weeks overdue, and it shows. And it’s not as if he hasn’t noticed either; he emphatically has: his bangs crowd into his eyes constantly, his relentless curls grow bolder every day, tossing his hair about every which way with little regard, and the amount of pomade he has to cake in each morning only to manage to look just on the right side of feral has reached levels that are simply unsustainable. It’s just that with all his schoolwork and his dissertation and the added burden of marking papers for his training course, he simply hasn’t had the time to bother with a trip to the barber. 

And he can’t imagine the hour and a half train journey spent slumped in his seat has done him any favours, either.

“I know, I know,” he says, looking back up and tugging lightly at a fistful of his hair. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” 

“No, no.” Much to Toby’s surprise, Adil reaches up and mimics his movement, pushing his fingers delicately through Toby’s out of control hair. “I never realised it was so curly.” 

Toby very nearly explodes on the spot; he may as well have run face-first into the sun for the way his cheeks burn, and he barely stops himself from shivering at the touch. _Affectionate_ , he reminds himself firmly as he tries, desperately, to retain his composure. _Adil is just a very affectionate man. It doesn’t mean anything_.

“I’ve done what I can to keep it tame. But…” He gestures flippantly towards his unruly mop and rolls his eyes as if he weren’t practically aflame, every inch of his body alight with gooey heat. Truly, it’s a miracle that his voice still works, even more so that he hasn’t simply melted into a pile of smitten mush on the floor.

Adil shakes his head. “I like it like this,” he says. “It suits you.” 

“You think so?” 

“Mhmm, it’s very…” Adil hesitates and takes a step back—lips pursed, brow scrunched, chin caught between his fingers, as if he’s considering the matter with the utmost sincerity and gravity. The way his eyes rake over Toby would be enough to send him to the ground if he weren’t already sitting. But the solemnity doesn’t hold long, and Adil’s smile soon wiggles free. “Eccentric English professor,” he pronounces, entirely too amused with himself. 

Though his heart is skittering like a jackrabbit on a frozen pond, Toby can’t help but laugh at that. “Eccentric English professor? Perfect,” he says miserably. “Girls love that sort of thing.” 

The words fall off his lips too easily, automatic, but they taste like battery acid scrubbed across his tongue; he hates them, hates himself for letting them out, no matter how much of a necessary evil they may seem to be. He doesn’t have to pretend with Adil; of all the people he knows, Adil is undoubtedly the last person he needs to lie to. And he knows that. He’s seen the rainbow flag proudly pinned on Adil’s bag and been wrapped in his gentle sympathy more than enough times to know, without a doubt, that Adil has no judgment to offer him. No matter what his friends, his family, or the world may think.

“I’m sure they will,” Adil answers softly.

Shame prickling at his neck, Toby grimaces down at his hands where they sit, twisted in his lap, while Adil busies himself with polishing a row of sparkling glasses. His mind tumbles in inelegant pursuit of something, anything to say to break through the awkward boulder he’s just thrown down between them unbeknownst to Adil. He finds nothing but self-censure. He ought to have just taken the compliment. He ought to have just kept his mouth shut. He ought to have learnt how to by now.

But, thankfully, the universe kindly elects to take mercy on him. For once.

“Toby Edward Hamilton!” Emma stands at the door like a breath of fresh air, all grown up in her stiff pencil skirt and crisp blazer. “Care to explain to me why it is that I had to find out from _Billy_ that you’d come home?” Though her voice is stern and her hands are set disapprovingly on her hips, the giddy grin she’s attempting to smother is plain as day, even from a distance.

The second he’s on his feet, her act crumbles, and she rushes to meet him. She sweeps him up in a crushing hug, rocking him back and forth and telling him how much she’s missed him. It’s difficult to believe it’s been nine months since he last saw her, and yet, he’s felt every day of that separation like a new splinter in his chest. He has so much he wants to tell her, and no doubt she has a thousand stories for him, too.

When she’s finished trying to squeeze him to death, Emma steps back, holding him at arm’s length, and looks him over. As he braces himself for the worst, there’s a soft swish, a faint squeal of old hinges, and he knows Adil is gone, having politely excused himself.

“Rough term, was it?” Emma asks once her appraisal is completed.

It’s teasing with an undercurrent of genuine concern, and it knocks the tension straight out of Toby’s shoulders. He’d been expecting some hollow sympathetic nonsense about his father; thank God she knows him better than that.

“You have _no_ idea.”

“Well, the good news is it’s over now. _And_ you have two full months of my delightful, rejuvenating presence ahead of you,” she says, pinching his cheek lightly.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” 

Releasing Toby, she turns her arm up to check her watch and frowns. “As much as I would love to stay and catch up, I have a meeting with a wedding planner in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Toby says with a flippant wave. He manages to hold the disappointment back but only just so. “I ought to finish unpacking anyhow.”

“Tell you what.” She plants her hands on his shoulders. “I’ll take my break after and come up, yeah? I shouldn’t be more than a half an hour. Then you can tell me all about this term from Hell.”

Pulling her hands back, she sticks her left pinky out; Toby locks his around it. 

“Deal.”

\---

No matter how he presses and shakes out it, the creases in his shirt refuse to budge. He frowns, but in the end, he can only blame himself; at this stage in his life, he really ought to have known better than to leave his delicate dress shirts folded and cramped up for so long. With any luck, though, he won’t have need of them for some time.

He wrestles the shirt onto a hanger and tucks it away in the wardrobe.

“I’m serious, Toby. It’d do you some good.”

He glances over to where Emma’s slumped in one of his chairs, her kitten heels kicked off and her stocking feet planted on his coffee table as she flicks through his notes on Fermat’s last theorem. 

“What would?”

Her idle flipping stills, and she gives him her best glare. Which is, admittedly, rather intimidating. “Do you ever listen to me?”

“Of course.” He gingerly plucks a stack of trousers from his case. “But I am a bit busy at the moment, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes with, frankly, undue melodrama. “Unpacking your clothes—at a rather leisurely pace, I might add—hardly qualifies as being busy.”

“Well, you know I’m rubbish at multitasking.”

She doesn’t bother trying to argue that, just turns back to the smudged pages in her hands. “Anyway, as I was saying, Betsey and Sonny are playing a gig at this little club uptown tonight, and I think you ought to come. It’ll be fun, and I know you’ve not done anything even remotely enjoyable in the past two months, so you owe it to yourself.”

He hadn’t told her everything—there were some bits of his Trinity Term that were simply too pitiful to speak aloud—but he’d told her more than enough. Of course, he hadn’t meant to; once the words started, it was like a flood, sweeping and overwhelming. The loneliness, the stress, the doubt, the asshole professors, the apathetic students: everything rushed from his mouth in a gulping, incomprehensible stream. He only just managed to bite back the truly horrifically embarrassing pieces.

But even if he had only laid out the most palatable bits, it hardly matters; simply having been given the opportunity to talk through it, to put words to just a fraction of his jumbled frustration, has made a small, quiet difference. He feels lighter, as if an actual burden has been removed from his back; he’s beginning to understand why some people bother with seeing a therapist. Still though, he isn’t sure he’s unencumbered enough to actually enjoy a night out yet.

“I don’t know, Emma. It’s not exactly…my scene, is it?”

“I’m sorry, supporting your friends’ music careers and enjoying my unparalleled company isn’t _your scene_?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah…” 

A comfortable silence falls over them, broken only by the rasp of paper on paper and the rumble and thunk of drawers opening and closing. For a foolish moment, Toby thinks he’s won her over. He ought to know better.

“You know…Adil will be there,” Emma says with a terrible mockery of nonchalance; as her words hang in the suddenly still air, she looks up at Toby from beneath her lashes, watching for his reaction.

Thankfully, he only freezes up for a moment, and though his face is growing hotter by the second, by some small miracle, he manages to keep it straight. 

“What difference does that make?” He asks, folding away the last of his trousers, casual as the summer breeze buffeting the trees outside his window.

Emma shrugs. Or rather, she makes the approximate motion as well as she can given how deeply she’s sunken into the chair. “I just thought you might like an opportunity to talk to him without a bar between you, is all.”

“Why would I want that?” 

Before his mask crumbles, he turns away and busies himself with zipping up his finally-empty suitcase.

“Oh, come on, Toby.” Dropping both his papers and her pretence unceremoniously on the coffee table, Emma follows him and sits herself in the middle of his bed, impossible to ignore. “I’m neither blind nor stupid. You fancy him.”

He’d known it was coming, but he’s still not prepared for it; it’s a bloody good thing he’d bent down to shove his suitcase out of the way under the bed or else he may have very well fallen on his ass in shock. Her words are light, teasing, no hint of accusation to them, but all the same, he feels like he’s been caught doing something repugnant and shameful, and his stomach sinks.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, trying to hold back the nausea. 

Emma knows he’s gay. Has known for some time. Hell, she’s the one who talked him round when he was a massively repressed twenty-one-year-old and about lost his mind because he realised that there was probably a reason why he didn’t like girls quite as much as his friends seemed to. 

But her knowing…It’s different in theory than in practice. Liking men in the abstract is one thing, but liking one specific, very real man is an entirely separate matter, and while he may have come to terms with it over the last three years, it’s a bit panic-inducing to know that he’s apparently been so obviously besotted that Emma merely had to look to see it.

Or perhaps Emma is simply privy to his every thought because when he stands again, she has softened noticeably, as if she heard every word that went through his head. “Toby, there’s nothing wrong with--”

“I know,” he says, and he does. He does know, though sometimes it’s hard to remember given the way he was raised and the majority of his experiences in secondary school.

“If you don’t want to talk about it…”

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Even if you take away the ingrained shame, it’s still horrifically embarrassing. A guy like him fancying a guy like Adil? It’s utterly ridiculous. Pitiful at best, pathetic at worst. Realistically speaking, Adil is thoroughly, by some margin, on all counts, out of Toby’s league. So far out, in fact, that Toby is almost certain that they are playing two incredibly different sports on two incredibly different planets.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Emma. I don’t--I mean, I’m not--Adil…” He sighs. With his clothes and his luggage sorted, he’s left listless, unsure what to do with his hands. He shoves them in his pockets, stares at his feet, and tries not to squirm under Emma’s analytic gaze. “It’s nothing.” 

Emma tsks, shaking her head, and pats the space beside her; obediently, Toby drops himself down beside her. She tugs one of his hands from his pocket, gently enfolding it in both of hers and pulling it over into her lap.

“Toby,” she says solemnly. “As your very best friend in the whole world, I feel it’s my responsibility to tell you…that is the single most absolutely _ridiculous_ thing I have ever heard in my life.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Excuse me?”

“You two were literally openly flirting with each other not even an hour ago!”

“That--that was _not_ flirting,” Toby sputters.

“Oh? So I suppose that bit where he was playing with your hair was just a bit of casual banter between mates then?” Emma asks, almost unbearably sarcastic.

“You saw that?” 

“I did.”

The heat in Toby’s cheeks ticks up another hundred degrees. “He was just--It wasn’t--You know how Adil is,” he says with a flippant wave to disguise the fact that he’s not entirely sure what he means by that. 

“Yeah, I do, and that’s definitely not how he acts with a guy that he’s not interested in.”

Toby’s brain skids to an abrupt stop, the words echoing around in the stillness. _Interested in. Adil, interested in me. Romantically--_

He can’t let the thought go any further; he can’t let himself believe Emma and get his hopes up when he knows it won’t end well. Because even if Adil was flirting, it surely wasn’t intentional. If Toby was to be daft enough to listen to Emma and lead himself on, it would only make the inevitable rejection sting that much more, and in all likelihood, it would mangle his and Adil’s friendship into something stilted and limp and unsustainable. And that would be a much more unbearable fate than never taking the risk and putting himself out there in the first place. Having Adil only as a friend may be painful, but it is worlds better than not having him at all.

“If I say I’ll come to the show, can we stop talking about this?”

Emma rolls her eyes, though the gesture is somewhat undercut by her satisfied grin. “Fine. My break is about up anyhow.” Dropping a quick peck on Toby’s cheek, she swings her legs over the bed and stands. “I’ll come round to pick you up. Be ready by eight.” She steps back into her heels with a grimace, smooths out her skirt, and reaches for the door. “Oh, and wear something cute.”

Before Toby can find something suitable to toss at her, she slips out of the door with a cheeky wink.

\---

The club is bigger than Toby expected, but with its deep wood panelling and low lights, it still manages to feel as cosy as any hole-in-the-wall pub. It’s a rather sophisticated place actually: no tacky sports memorabilia nailed up along the walls, no crumbling dartboard in the corner, no squelchy stick of slopped-over beer on the floor, no sloshed patrons stumbling about. It is almost more like a library that happens to serve up alcohol in place of books and has a stage in the corner. Toby very nearly even feels comfortable.

Or he would. If not for his company. He’s been sat alone with Adil for ten minutes now—after Emma ever so subtly led Freddie off under the pretence of a bit of dancing—and they have hardly spoken a word to each other. Of course, if he was feeling optimistic, he’d put it down to the music, to Adil wanting to enjoy every last note of Betsey and Sonny’s performance, but the noisy silence that has fallen over them is stiff and uncomfortable and tangibly deliberate, and Adil hasn’t so much as looked in his direction all night. 

Toby doesn’t know what’s happened. He’s always been awkward around Adil, clumsy with his words and tongue-tied, but he’s never felt out of place with Adil as he does now. Adil’s always had more than enough charm to cover for both of them. That charm, though, is clearly not going to be extended tonight. Not that Adil has been rude or cold in any way thus far; he just…hasn’t been Adil. At least not with Toby. He’s been quiet and self-contained, giving short responses to the few strands of conversation Toby has thrown out. 

It’s rather disappointing; he’d sort of been hoping to try his hand at flirting with Adil. Just to prove Emma wrong, though, of course. Show her that Adil is resolutely uninterested and that her eyes aren’t half as keen as she seems to think they are. But, he supposes, the tense silence is proof enough.

Without any chatter to distract him, Toby is left to nervously nurse his lukewarm beer, picking at the wilted label as he tries to build up the courage to ask the question that’s been eating him up ever since Emma had to go and put ludicrous ideas in his head. Though he’s given it a valiant attempt, he hasn’t quite been able to hold back the hopeful romantic voice that has hitherto lived in a state of perpetually slumber in the back of his head. Under Emma’s influence, that voice has perked up with some enthusiasm, running through his brief interaction with Adil time and time again, analysing every word, every look, every movement with unqualified expertise and dangerous optimism. It’s only made him more confused.

He sneaks a glance in Adil’s direction, and…He still can’t see it. Adil’s just sitting there, mostly relaxed, sipping at his drink, smiling at small rabble kicking their heels up by the stage. Surely there would be signs; surely Toby would be able to tell somehow if Adil was actually interested in him…Right? Though, supposing there is a definitive tell, he would hardly know how to recognise it. He’s not exactly experienced in the field of romance. Unless you count the girls who have been coerced into dancing with him by their scheming parents at various stuffy events.

Betsey and Sonny’s jaunty song draws to a close, and the club falls into what passes as a hush as Betsey sits down beside Sonny on the piano bench and addresses the small crowd. It’s almost painful to watch, the way the two of them gaze at each other with such obvious love in their eyes, so Toby, stumbling upon a supply of vaguely tipsy courage, turns back to Adil and seizes the quiet opportunity.

“Did you mean it?” He cringes as the words trip off his tongue; that’s not exactly what he’d planned on saying, and he hadn’t meant to sound quite so needy and pathetic.

At last, Adil looks at him, brow furrowed. “Mean what?” 

Toby hates himself for blushing so easily, but he glues his eyes to the tabletop and shoulders through the embarrassment. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that. “Er, about my hair. Do you--I mean, do you actually like it like this? Or were you just saying that?”

He lifts his eyes just in time to see Adil give him a sad smile, soft enough to break his heart. “Toby, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

There’s something beneath his words, something Toby’s never heard from Adil, but he can’t place it. Before he can ask, before he can even take a guess, Betsey and Sonny are starting up a new, brash song, and Adil has determinedly turned away once more.

Toby falls back in his seat, not quite pouting but very near to it. Well, that has helped to illuminate precisely nothing whatsoever about any feelings Adil may or may not have for him. All it has done is made it abundantly clear that, somewhere along the line of the day, Toby has done something to offend Adil, and now, Adil is largely ignoring him specifically, on purpose. 

God, he wishes Freddie and Emma would just come back to the table already.

“Toby?”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Toby turns at the sound of Adil’s voice, stupid hope immediately springing up in his chest. “Yes?”

“I’m going to get another drink, do you want anything?” Like the rest of their interactions throughout the night, the offer is polite but stiff, as if he’s had to force himself to extend it.

“Oh, um…” The hope curdles and sinks to Toby’s stomach; he pushes his beer away. “No, no, thank you. I’m alright.”

As he watches Adil walk off towards the bar, Toby combs through the past ten hours. He must have done something; there’s no other explanation for Adil’s cold shoulder, but Toby’s honestly had nought but a two-minute conversation with him since he arrived back home. All they had even talked about was his hair. How he could have possibly kicked such a hole in their friendship in that short exchange over the bar is beyond him.

Unless…Unless Adil has worked it out. He is an intelligent man, far more perceptive than most, and he probably has plenty of experience to go on: it would have been easy for him to recognise the signs, he would know what they were. And Toby hadn’t been entirely subtle either; he’d practically melted into Adil’s hands at the slightest touch. 

That’s it. It must be. Adil knows. He knows Toby is utterly besotted with him, and he wants no part of it, so he’s distancing himself to put Toby off him. 

Though…Adil isn’t that sort, is he? Evasive and indirect? He’s too genuine and good for that. He wouldn’t brush Toby off; he’d let him down as gently as possible or just never let on about knowing.

With a groan, Toby lets his dizzy head drop to the table in defeat. And instantly regrets it. Wincing, he rubs at his forehead and slides his eyes across the room. Thankfully, no one seems to have noticed his childish little outburst, and he sits back up in his seat to consider the matter like a proper, emotionally-functional human being. 

The truth of it is, there is no answer. Or least, not one he can come up with on his own. He can go back and forth with himself all night and never get anywhere except a massive headache. Adil is the only one who can put a definitive end to it, but Toby’s hardly going to just ask him. That would be far too mortifying to survive, whatever the answer may be. He’s simply going to have to settle for two months of maddening uncertainty and pray that Adil will have the sympathy to put him out of his misery either way.

Speaking of Adil—Toby glances down at his watch with a frown. He’s been gone for the better part of ten minutes. Immediately, worry floods down Toby’s spine. This place seems nice enough on the surface, but even the friendliest places have their disreputables lurking about, waiting to stir up trouble. God knows who Adil could have innocently got mixed up with on his walk to the bar. 

Toby ought to go and look for him. To check in, to be sure he’s safe, to see if he needs an extraction. Besides, as uncomfortable as the air has been between them thus far, Toby can’t bear to be left entirely alone in a strange place at the mercy of his own mind for a second longer. So, after a moment of anxiously wringing his hands, he pushes himself up from his seat and sets off towards the bar.

It’s a good deal more crowded now than it had been when they arrived; Toby supposes that’s a good thing—more people here to see Betsey and Sonny—but he has to bob and weave and squeeze his way through the crowd in a manner that his decidedly bookish coordination is not suited for. By the time he makes it within sight of the bar, he’s been jostled mercilessly, been elbowed half a dozen times, and received more than his fair share of dirty stares. But all that pales in comparison to the sucker-punch waiting for him at the bar.

Adil is there. Hale and whole and completely untroubled. Chatting away with an excruciatingly attractive man who looks straight out of a magazine. They’re sat close, turned in towards each other enough that their knees knock together, oblivious to anything outside their bubble. They laugh together, and smooth as can be, the man lays a bold hand on Adil’s thigh, its intention unmistakable. An easy smile pulls up Adil’s lips.

Well, there’s Toby’s answer. Clear as day.

With his stomach plummeting straight to his shoes, Toby turns and scurries back the way he came like a whipped dog with his foolish, hopeful tail between his legs. He can’t believe he’s been so stupid. Of course. Of course, Adil isn’t interested in him. He’d always known that. Hell, anyone with eyes and an ounce of logic to their name could see it. How could he have let Emma even begin to convince him otherwise?

He throws himself into his seat and hastily knocks back the remainder of his nearly full, awful beer. It’s not enough. It does nothing to unknot his tight frown or relieve the stinging pressure behind his eyes. He needs something a bit stronger, something that will make him forget to care. He knows better, has learnt better and learnt it the hard way, but at the moment, he can't bring himself to care about the consequences, so he snags the attention of a passing waitress and orders a round of neat whiskey for the table; two minutes later, she sets down four glasses before him. After handing over a handful of notes, he wastes no time grabbing the nearest glass and downing it in one go.

He’s about to knock back his fourth drink when the glass is cruelly swiped from his slowing fingers. Toby makes a loud, indignant noise and reaches out to grab the glass back, drawing a fair bit of unfavourable attention from the other patrons, but Freddie, the insufferable prick, merely pulls the glass further away and shushes him.

“I think you’ve had more than enough, Toby,” he says, half-concern, half-warning.

Emma isn’t with him. Probably for the best. Or else Toby might have said something truly regrettable.

“Oh, piss off and leave me alone,” Toby grumbles, swiping at the glass once again. 

Freddie easily fends him off, slapping his hand away like a bothersome bug. “Christ, what’s gotten into you?” 

Toby, electing to focus his energy on getting the whiskey back, doesn’t answer. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Because Freddie wouldn’t understand. He never does. Too busy being perfect and getting every bloody thing he ever wanted without having to try.

Freddie—his face puckered up with a moderate, disapproving scowl that Toby immediately hates—sets the whiskey at the other end of the table and takes the seat beside Toby, making himself a rather irritating, impassable barrier. “Toby--”

“You’re in Adil’s seat,” Toby mutters. Not that it matters. Adil certainly isn’t going to be needing it any time soon. He reaches for one of the empty glasses and tips up to his mouth, desperate to wring out every last bitter drop. Soon enough, that too is stolen away. “Hey! I _paid_ for that, you prick!”

“Keep your voice down!” Freddie hisses. “And have a little class, for God’s sake.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Toby lays the obeisance on thick and presses a hand over his heart. “So terribly sorry, _Lord_ Hamilton. Forgive me for offending his lord _shit_.”

Toby giggles and attempts a bow, but it proves rather difficult while slumped up against the table. Either way, Freddie is decidedly unamused. 

_Good_.

“What’s going on?” 

Toby freezes at that voice, kneejerk nausea crashing over him and washing away every trace of his petty satisfaction. _Fuck._ Adil’s meant to be off snogging with Mr. GQ. He’s not meant to come back. He’s not meant to see Toby like this.

“I’m not sure,” Freddie admits. He says something more, but Toby’s head is busy spinning like a possessed carousel, and he can’t make it out. He’s almost certainly going to be sick, but he buries his head in his hands and does his best to keep breathing through it; he really can’t afford any further embarrassment in front of Adil.

“I’ll walk him back to the hotel,” Adil volunteers. 

_Oh no. No no no no no no._

“You don’t mind?” Freddie asks. 

“No, I was planning to leave soon anyhow.” 

_Shit._

Toby raises his head to protest—much too fast, setting the room to swaying—but the gentle touch of Adil’s hand on his shoulder melts any resistance in his body, and he completely forgets why he was so keen to avoid Adil in the first place.

“Come on, Toby,” he says, soft and encouraging. “Let’s get you home.”

It’s easier said than done. Toby’s hardly much help at even getting himself out of his chair, let alone standing up straight and making actual use of his gangly limbs. While Adil bundles him into his jacket as he would a clueless child, Toby looks about the room, a bit smugger than he ought to be. Mr. GQ is nowhere to be found; Adil’s left him behind, and it’s Toby who Adil’s hands are on now, Toby who’s going home with him. He’s won. Sort of. But sort of is good enough.

Out on the dim street, Toby slouches against Adil perhaps more than he needs to, watching his feet stumble over the dirty concrete while Adil’s arm around his waist—strong and steady and oh so warm where it’s slipped up under his jacket, pressed against the thin material of his shirt—keeps him upright and moving forward. With his inhibitions drastically lowered, Toby doesn’t think twice about wrapping his own arm around Adil’s shoulders; besides, he can claim it’s for added balance if Adil questions it. But he doesn’t question it. So Toby pretends, just for a moment, that it’s real. That Adil wants him too. That Adil is as thrilled by such a simple touch as he is. That they’re just like any other couple, walking through the streets of London on an early summer night, ridiculously in love.

They make it back to The Halcyon in disappointingly short order and, surprisingly, relatively unscathed—though Toby did stub his toe and nearly go to his face on an uneven slab of concrete along Grosvenor Street. Late as it is, the doormen have long since been relieved of their duty, and it’s up to Adil to juggle Toby up the front stairs and through the heavy doors all on his own. Of course, Toby does what he can to cooperate, but the twelve-minute walk hasn’t quite sobered him into usefulness.

With a friendly wave to the night receptionist, Adil drags Toby through the lobby, not even sparing a glance towards the stairs, and bustles him into the elevator, carefully leveraging him against the wall and stabbing the button for the first floor. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Toby hopes word of this won’t get back to his mother, but a little further back and slightly to the left, he knows it will. 

“Do you have your room key?”

Toby almost surely does, but at the moment, his brain capacity is rather severely limited by the copious amounts of liquor and the dizziness of Adil being so dangerously close, so he merely shrugs and watches Adil’s lips quirk up in a fondly exasperated smile. 

He could kiss him. He could kiss him right now. It’d be so easy. All he’d have to do is lean forward, and he’d be kissing Adil Joshi. If only he had the courage.

With a simple rummage through Toby’s jacket pockets, Adil manages to both find the room key and send Toby’s mind reeling before the doors slide open with a disdainful hiss. Key in hand, Adil tucks Toby’s arm back over his shoulder and pulls him out into the deserted hallway. Knowing his time in Adil’s arms is about to be up, Toby slumps into him even more, buying himself a precious few extra seconds as Adil adjusts to accommodate the weight.

\---

When Adil had accepted Sonny’s invitation, this wasn’t quite how he’d imagined the night would end up: lugging the guy he had a distractingly massive crush on back to his hotel room because he’d gone and gotten himself pissed out of his mind. Though, he supposes as he struggles to fit the room key into the lock, perhaps it is a bit his fault. After all, he had left Toby to his own devices in favour of letting an arrogant but attractive and much-needed diversion chat him up for nearly an hour.

He had almost bailed out on the night entirely when Emma had coyly informed him that she’d invited Toby along. For as long as he has known Toby, it has always felt as if they were building towards something. There have been moments, here and there, over the years that seemed to spark with possibility, heavy and charged like the air just before a thunderstorm: their fingers brushing over a glass, the smiles and laughs bouncing easy and carefree between them, Toby’s eyes lingering just a touch too long…

But their conversation at the bar that morning, innocuous as it may have been, had reminded Adil rather sharply that his feelings for Toby were entirely infeasible, that any sense of reciprocation was nothing but hopeful misinterpretation on his part. _Girls love that sort of thing_. He’d said it so casually, and that’s all it had taken to sweep away the excitement of Toby’s return and drench Adil in a thick, bitter slime of disillusioned cynicism. 

He’d kept to the plans simply out of respect for Sonny and Betsey, but being faced with Toby all night had really put his newfound resolve to get over Toby to the test. He’d done his best to distance himself, though he had only moderate success, thwarted consistently by Emma’s odd manoeuvring that kept them no more than a few feet apart at all times. When she and Freddie had stranded them alone together, Adil had hardly been able to sit still, even less so when Toby had to go and ask about his hair, shooting Adil straight through with heavy embarrassment as he was forced to remember just what a fool he been that morning, running his fingers through Toby’s hair like some bloody coquette. 

Escaping to the bar had been the only sensible course of action; granted, he had known it was a bit dickish to leave Toby all on his own, but for his own sanity and morale, he had to get away. With a fresh drink in hand, he had told himself that he was going to go home with a decent guy, have a bit of fun, put Toby as far from his mind as possible, and move on.

And yet, now, here he is, practically carrying Toby into his room, pulling back the blankets on his bed, the pungent intimacy of the moment bearing down on him. 

Gingerly, he helps Toby lower himself onto the mattress and holds him by the shoulders until he’s steady enough to sit up on his own. What on Earth convinced him that he ought to get this off his tits, Adil has no idea, but it must have been quite persuasive because he’s done an exceptionally thorough job of it. Adil’s never seen him this drunk before, not even on the night of his father’s funeral when he guzzled down everything he could get his hands on trying to block out the unwanted condolences and sticky synthetic sympathy. It’s not a look he particularly likes for Toby.

“Why don’t we get you ready for bed?” The sooner Toby can start sleeping this off, the better. Adil waits until he nods in sluggish acquiescence. “Good. Now, do you think you can manage to get yourself undressed?”

The tipsy salute Toby gives him is less than convincing, but Adil accepts it anyhow and makes his way to the bathroom to give him a bit of privacy and to scrape up what supplies he can. Years of work as a bartender have taught him a thing or two about hangover de-escalation, what works and what doesn’t; fortunately, the two best remedies are easily available: sleep and water. But along with the glass of lukewarm tap water, he grabs a half-empty bottle of painkillers from the bottom of Toby’s toiletries bag that has yet to be unpacked, and as somewhat of an afterthought, he gathers up the bin as well; Toby can handle his liquor, but for the sake of Mrs. Hobbs and the cleaning staff, Adil would rather be safe than sorry.

On his way out, he accidentally catches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is fallen and laying limp over his forehead, his face flushed, his eyes dull, his jacket jostled and lopsided on his shoulders; he looks about as torn up as he feels. He turns away and shuts off the light.

When Adil returns to the bedroom, his meagre plunder in tow, he sees that Toby has efficiently kicked off his shoes, thrown his jacket to the floor, and gotten his trousers at least half-unzipped. Apparently, he had abandoned that last project in favour of struggling to get out of his shirt, which he is currently attempting, and failing, to pull over his head while it’s still buttoned. Stifling a giggle, Adil rolls his eyes, only a little fond, and sets his supplies down before reaching out to lend Toby a hand.

Once he manages to free Toby from his cotton prison, he neatly folds the shirt and sets it out of the way on the bedside table. Turning back, he finds Toby staring up at him, eyes unfocused and filled with something pretty close to unabashed wonder. 

Going a bit warm under the collar, Adil picks up the glass of water and does his dead-level best not to stare back. It’s a rarity to see Toby in anything but modest frumpy tweed and baggy wool jumpers, so the plain white undershirt stretched across his chest is, comparatively, downright revealing, and suddenly, Adil can no longer ignore the fact that he’s practically standing between Toby’s legs, far too close. He swallows and takes a deep breath.

“Drink this,” he says, holding out the glass. 

Toby does as he’s told, never taking his eyes off Adil. When he’s done, he hands the glass back, and his fingers tangle themselves in the hem of Adil’s shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, reverent, like some secret prayer only he knows the words to. 

Despite the nasty jolt that spears through his chest, Adil cracks a smile. He can almost imagine if this were real. If Toby was his boyfriend. If this was the cosy bed they shared. If this was just another night in their life together. 

_Why not just pretend it is? Where’s the harm in that?_

Adil must be a bit more buzzed than he thought because he heeds that little voice and indulgently pushes his fingers through Toby’s messy hair once more, sweeping it back from where it has fallen in his face and letting his hand trail down to cup Toby’s jaw. 

“And you’re very drunk. Now get some rest, or you’ll hate yourself in the morning,” he says softly. 

With a compliant nod, a good deal of effort, and a little help from Adil, Toby manages to belatedly wiggle out of his trousers and lay down on the bed. He makes something of a hassle about rearranging his legs and adjusting his pillow, but when he seems comfortable enough, his eyes heavy and half-lidded, Adil pulls the blankets up around him and just barely manages to quash the urge to drop a kiss on his forehead. 

Moving away, Adil picks up the glass, intending to refill it, but before he can get too far, Toby’s hand shoots out from under the blankets and wraps around his wrist. 

“Stay?” He asks, timid and already well on his way to sleep.

Adil’s heart kicks against his ribs, but his response is immediate. “Of course.”

As Toby’s eyes slip closed, Adil scrubs a hand over his face, the unforgiving weight of the day condensing on his finally-still shoulders. He feels fit to collapse, his head fuzzy, his legs ready to give at a moment’s notice. He probably couldn’t even make it back to his flat anyhow. _At least it’s Friday_ , he reminds himself. He has a rare, free weekend of lazing around in his sweats, eating cheap takeaway, and catching up on his reading to look forward to, a couple of days away from The Halcyon to take his mind off things.

He looks back at Toby. If only he knew…Maybe it would be easier. Maybe this thing would quit growing inside his chest if Adil just spit it out and let it breathe. Maybe it would shrivel up and die out in the open air. Maybe it would flourish, plant its roots somewhere else and become something better. Maybe then he could move on, leave it where it lies, and fill his lungs with far sweeter, reciprocal airs. 

There’s no telling how Toby would take it. He’s a good man, a kind man with an amiable and level disposition. He may be a bit more outspoken when he’s drunk, but that’s a rarity, and he’s never been known to cause trouble or lose his temper. And he knows that Adil is gay, that’s for certain, and he has never seemed to have a problem with it. But of course, that was always in the background, at a distance, inconsequential. It could be quite a different story were he to abruptly find Adil’s sexuality is much more immediate and relevant to him than he ever expected. Anger, disgust, discomfort: whatever reaction he may have, to whatever degree, it would surely put a damper or even a halt on their friendship. 

It’s the last thing Adil needs to be thinking about in the precipitous state that he’s in. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up spiralling into exhausted, over-analytic, indulgent angst, and right now, he really needs to be blissfully unconscious instead. So he shuffles into the bathroom, determined to put the matter and himself to rest. 

Once he’s swished around a capful of Toby’s terribly strong mouthwash, refilled the glass with water, and set it within Toby’s reach, Adil pulls his phone from his pocket and shoots off a text to Emma to let her and Freddie know Toby got home safely. Setting his phone on the coffee table, he pulls off his shoes and shucks his jacket onto the chair nearest the door. He’s not keen to sleep in his trousers and a button-down, but he supposes he doesn’t have much choice. He eyes the remaining chair wearily; it’s certainly not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement he’s ever had and his body will hate him in the morning, but it’ll have to do. He throws a quick, envious glance over his shoulder at Toby’s wide, plush bed.

As if he had sensed Adil’s impending discomfort, Toby blindly flops a hand out and pats the space next to him. Adil hesitates. On the one hand, a night spent swaddled in expensive sheets sounds infinitely more pleasant than a night spent contorted and cold in a similarly expensive but markedly less silky armchair. But on the other hand, Toby. He can’t possibly share a bed with Toby. It’ll just make things harder and brutally awkward in the morning. And Toby would never offer were he in the right state of mind; he’s never been the sort that’s comfortable having other people in his space.

But Toby grumbles insistently and pats the bed a bit more firmly before shoving the covers back, still not bothering to open his eyes. Adil caves, his lumbar-preservation instinct winning out over his self-preservation instinct. He checks that the door is locked, silences the early alarm on his phone, and switches off the lamp on the bedside table. In the dark, with no more cause for delay, he walks around the bed and slips under the duvet beside Toby in a similar manner to which he would lay himself down on a bed of rusted nails. 

The sheets are already dreadfully warm from Toby’s body heat, and in an inexplicable moment of daring, Adil turns inwards; they lie facing each other in the blue-tinted dark, a pair of parentheses bending towards each other, a canyon of two feet between them. As his eyes adjust, he studies Toby’s peaceful face, watching the sheet pull and slack with the movement of his breathing, counting the freckles that litter his skin. Everyone fawns over Freddie, but Adil has always found Toby to be far more handsome. Never more so than in this moment.

This is what it would be like, he thinks, if they were together. It would be like this, every night. Only closer. He can picture it all too well. He can picture Toby in his flat, in his room, in his bed with a book, frowning and muttering to himself as he reads. He can picture himself climbing into bed beside Toby, resting his head on Toby’s shoulder, distracting him with feather-light kisses dropped down his neck. He can picture them volleying points of Toby’s dissertation back and forth as they lay themselves down, making big and small plans for tomorrow, holding each other tight.

With the idyllic image prancing through his head and the sound of Toby’s steady breathing in his ears, Adil drifts off, unworried about whatever trouble may and will come in the morning.

\---

The first thing Adil becomes aware of is warmth, radiant and rosy. The second is the light—harsh, white, and overbearing—pulling him away from sleep and stomping against his hesitant eyes. The third is the unidentified weight pinning down his arms, preventing him from shielding his eyes from the sun’s vicious onslaught. Though, given the slow tickle of breath against his chest, it doesn’t take long for him to work out what, or rather who, the weight belongs to.

He pries his eyes open slowly: a two-pronged strategy that allows him both to prepare his already-aching head for the sun’s ferocity and to linger in the pleasant deniability of the unseen for just a few moments longer. 

Toby is curled into him, Adil’s right arm tucked beneath him, his head resting against Adil’s chest, his fingers bunched up in the fabric of Adil’s now terribly wrinkled shirt, his other hand grasped onto Adil’s left forearm where it lies between them. Adil has to crane his neck something awful to get a good look at him, but when he does, there’s a moment where he can’t be sure it’s actually Toby. Because the man currently cuddled up against him seems far too small, too unworried, too unburdened by the world and untethered from his place in it to be Toby Hamilton. 

As well as he can without disturbing Toby, Adil props himself up until he can see the sleek alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s gone well past nine already. He ought to have been up hours ago. He turns back to Toby, who is still sound asleep, though that’s hardly surprising given how much he’d had to drink. Adil doesn’t want to wake him; he rather fancies the idea of whiling the morning away right here, with Toby in his arms. But he knows he can’t. For several reasons. Not the least of which being that he needs to use the loo, rather urgently.

Carefully, hesitantly, he pulls his left arm out from Toby’s grasp; he lets go easily enough, and Adil, slightly more confident in the density of Toby’s sleep, sets about extracting his right arm from beneath Toby, centimetre by painstaking centimetre. 

When at last Adil slips free, Toby sniffles, somehow managing to sound indignant, but he rolls over and sleeps on without any further incident. Adil sighs in relief. It would have been bad enough if Toby had woken up in his arms, but if he had woken up while Adil was, by all appearances, attempting to flee from his bed? The discomfort would have been unimaginable.

In the bathroom, Adil does an admirable job of avoiding his dishevelled reflection. Instead of looking in the mirror while he scrubs the previous night from his skin and tries to push the lingering taste of death from his mouth with another capful full of mouthwash, he stares at the shower, unable to decide if it would be inappropriate to take one without having been invited to first. He settles on _probably_ and leaves the beautiful thought behind with one last longing glance.

Toby is slumped over in the bed, his head ducked between his hands, when Adil shuffles back out. It’s an odd sight, to see him so ruffled and unrefined, his overgrown hair like a hasty bird’s nest atop his head. It seems as if every last sip of whiskey has come back to haunt him. 

“How do you feel?”

Toby’s head snaps up, a movement he clearly instantly regrets as his face screws up and his eyes go woozy before he shields them with his hands. “About as good as I imagine I look. Which is to say absolutely, entirely godawful.”

Adil tries, and fails, not to smile. “There’s aspirin on the table,” he points out helpfully. 

Having learnt his lesson, Toby slowly turns to his right and notices the glass of water and the bottle of painkillers waiting patiently for him. “Oh, you’re an angel, Adil Joshi,” he says without looking anywhere even in the vicinity of Adil. But, to be fair, Adil is also doing his best not to look anywhere even in the vicinity of Toby. 

He tries instead to focus on putting himself back together. Or as close to together as he can manage being unshowered, in day-old clothes, and without a speck of pomade to keep his limp hair out of his face. But his traitorous eyes slip back to the bed of their own accord.

The sour grimace on Toby’s face as he attempts to force down one of the tiny little pills is ridiculously endearing. Frankly, Adil has never wanted to kiss him more. He reaches for his phone, checking his notifications to disguise the dopey grin he can’t bite back.

“Thank you.” He’s still not quite looking at Adil, but the pink tinge climbing up Toby’s cheeks is clear as day in the stark morning light. “I know I must have been in a terrible state last night. I’m sure I made a perfect ass of myself, and I--” With a deep breath, he finally meets Adil’s eyes. “I’m sorry you had to give up your night to take care of me.”

Adil waves him off. “It’s okay, Toby. Your safety is a bit more important than one night out.”

He carefully leaves out the part where he hadn’t exactly been enjoying himself due to being caught up moping over his regrettable crush on Toby and pouting over it like a sullen child. And the part where Toby’s drunkenness had prevented him from being dangerously impulsive and making what would have likely come out to be a massive mistake with a passably tolerable stranger.

A small smile sneaks onto Toby’s lips, but he drops his head and shakes it off into the rumpled duvet. “I think you may be giving me a bit too much leniency.”

“What are friends for if not mercy when you need it most?” Adil asks with a cheeky smile of his own. “Besides, I’m sure that hangover has taught you about the necessity of moderation better than a lecture from me ever could.”

“You can say that again. But preferably, very quietly and with the curtains drawn.”

It’s not a real request, but Adil obliges anyhow, unlashing the dust-heavy mustard curtains and pulling them as tight as he can manage. A comfortable, safe darkness engulfs the room, and Adil hears Toby sigh in relief.

His voice finds a bit more courage in the dark. “Is everything okay?”

“What? What do you mean?”

Adil shrugs, though, the gesture probably doesn’t carry well in the dim light. He sits at the foot of the bed, a thoughtful few feet away from Toby. “It’s just--Most people don’t get that pissed just for fun.”

Another sigh. Less relief, more resignation. 

“You’re not wrong.” There’s a long pause, most likely as Toby debates whether or not he ought to tell Adil the truth or brush it off. They are friends, and Toby has confided in him before, but it’s not exactly a common practice for them; this is more Emma’s territory. Still, Adil watches patiently as Toby pulls his legs up, tucked against his chest, and he wonders if he’s trying to keep Adil out or himself in. “I suppose I just had a lot on my mind. It’s always…difficult. Coming back home. Dealing with my mother.”

Now that is an area of Toby’s life Adil is well-versed in. Gossip carries throughout the hotel, and the dysfunction of the Hamilton family has always a favourite subject among the overworked staff. But Adil has witnessed enough rigid and stilted interactions and consoled a bricked-up Toby over the bar enough times that the gossip rarely brings him anything he didn’t already know. Which is this: despite whatever fronts Lady Hamilton cares to put up, it is no secret to anyone with functioning eyes and ears that her relationship with her younger son is, at best, strained. Not quite as terribly tense and fraught as the late Lord Hamilton’s relationship with him, but still not ideal by any means. 

It had seemed, for a moment, when Toby first went off to university, that things were due to get better. Distance and hearts growing fonder and all that. But it seemed that his parents had very nearly forgotten about him entirely while he was away, and when he returned, the ice between them had only grown thicker and colder. His mother has tried, granted, and she is not terrible by any means, but it’s clear that motherhood is not something she’s particularly suited for. She cares for her children, of course, but she seems unable to connect with them, as if they speak a different, indecipherable language. Or as if they remind her inescapably of all the choices that were taken from her the moment she said ‘I do’. When Adil thinks of his own mother—her warmth, her compassion, her strength, her relentless pursuit of the best for him and his siblings, her arms that always reached for a hug, her stories that never ran dry no matter how many Adil asked for, her smile that shined so often it left permanent lines in her cheeks—the difference is striking, and his heart breaks for Toby and for Lady Hamilton, too.

The answer is always no, but Adil asks anyhow, on the off-chance that their private twilight will loosen Toby’s tongue. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“What’s there to say?” Toby picks nonexistent lint from the duvet, a convenient excuse not to meet Adil’s eyes. “She’s never approved of me or any of the choices I’ve made in my life, but for some unimaginable reason, I thought perhaps it’d be different this time. I was wrong. Life goes on.”

“Why did you think it would be different?” Adil asks, trying, as much as he can, not to sound like a therapist.

“I don’t know. I said it was unimaginable.”

“Well, imagine it anyway.”

Toby huffs, as if he were Sisyphus and Adil had just carelessly kicked his boulder all the way back down the hill without any appreciation for the work it took to even tow it up in the first place. But, after a beat of silence--

“With my father gone…” He shakes his head and starts again. “I suppose I thought… _hoped_ that it was him. That she only saw me as such a disappointment because he told her to, but…Nothing’s changed.”

“Maybe it will. It’s only been a month, and you’ve just arrived. Maybe she just needs time to adjust.” 

Toby laughs, a bitter, unpleasant thing. “While I appreciate your neverending optimism, Adil, I fear this time it may be entirely misplaced.” 

Adil would be hard-pressed to say he was _optimistic_ about the chances Lady Hamilton reforming into a model mother, no matter the amount of time she had for such a transformation, but it’s not inconceivable that she could grow closer to her children now that she no longer has to spend her time conveniently diverted from her husband’s numerous, well-known affairs. But he lets it go without argument; he doesn’t want to interrupt now that Toby’s finally beginning to ease open the floodgates.

“I mean,” Toby continues. “I was with her hardly ten minutes before she was criticising my coursework and trying to set me up with another girl she’s so sure I’ll _hit it off_ with, for God’s sake.” If his tone and exaggerated air quotes weren’t enough, Toby rolls his eyes to make clear just how laughable he finds his mother’s proposed matchmaking. “She says it’s because she can’t bear to see me on my own, but if that were true, you’d think she’d have taken an interest when I was in school and I had no friends because they all liked Freddie better.” There’s a deep, aching bruise under those words, one that reaches all the way down to the bone and can’t be hidden behind Toby’s affected indifference. “No, it’s nothing to do with me or my being happy at all. Not really.”

“What makes you so sure?” Adil doesn’t disbelieve him, but he may as well ask.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life learning how to analyse things, break them down and understand all the patterns.” He unfolds, just a bit, his shoulders lifted from their slump. “My mother has always coerced me into entertaining a girl for the evening at every event we’ve ever attended. Of course. But she never pushed it beyond that. There were nudging comments here and there over the years, but for the most part, she left me alone. I imagine she assumed it was a phase. That I would grow out of it and start, if not chasing girls, then at least making eyes at them. Though, she probably wasn’t particularly concerned either way. I’m not the heir, after all. What I do hardly matters in the grand scheme of the family legacy,” he explains, like a professor giving a lecture. Clearly, he’s run through this reasoning on his own more than once. “It was only after Freddie and Emma started dating that she decided it was imperative that I find a charming, _aristocratic_ woman to attach myself to.”

He gives Adil a pointed look: _you see?_ And Adil does. He can’t vouch for Toby's logic, but his meaning is quite difficult to miss. But a sympathetic grimace is all Adil can offer him. “I’m sorry,” he says lamely.

Toby shakes his head, but his eyes have run away from Adil once more. “Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault.” He makes a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a hollow laugh. “Though, I suppose it is partly my own.”

Adil frowns. “How could it possibly be your fault?”

“Because if I’d ever shown a shred of charisma or any proficiency with women at all, this wouldn’t be necessary.”

The tone of flippant self-accusation is too familiar to Adil, and he hates it, hates knowing it’s not false humility but Toby’s genuine doubt in himself. He pushes back against it, gentle but insistent.

“Toby, take it from someone who’s had a front-row seat to quite a few of your dates: you have plenty of charisma.” Toby rolls his eyes, the pink creeping back into his cheeks. “And personally, I can’t say I know much about being proficient with women--” The barest hint of something resembling a smile lifts one corner of Toby’s lips. “But I know when you meet the right woman, everything will fall into place.”

“If.”

“Hm?”

“ _If_ I meet the right woman. Which, uh…” He smirks, in spite of himself. “Isn’t likely.” 

Adil opens his mouth, a kind lecture about confidence and positive thinking readily falling off his tongue, but Toby is quick to interject, waving away his concern.

“No, no, it isn’t that. It’s not that I don’t think I--I know I could find a girlfriend eventually if--I’m not--It’s--” 

He cuts himself off, shakes his head, presses his lips into a grim, displeased line. Adil can see a brutal war unfolding behind his eyes, full of flighty fear and determined desperation. He wants to reach out, to comfort Toby somehow, so he curls his fingers into the duvet instead and waits patiently for Toby to find the right words. 

“It’s just that, um…” Toby clears his throat, pauses, takes a deep breath, holding it in like he hopes some internal alchemy will turn it into solid courage. Then he moves, swinging his legs down to the ground as if he intends to simply get up and walk away from the words he can’t seem to say. But he doesn’t stand, he stays perched on the edge of the mattress, his body turning in on itself, his hands planted on either side of him, seemingly the only thing keeping him from slipping to the floor and letting it consume him whole.

“Toby, whatever it is, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable--”

“I’m gay.”

Toby’s voice is small, held down, as if the walls were made of paper not plaster.

To say that Adil is surprised would be both a gross understatement and not entirely truthful. Of course, he’s had his suspicions about Toby since they first met; always thought he recognised a certain kinship in him, as if they were anchored to the same polarity. But Toby has always been ready to offhandedly and candidly profess his attraction to women. Even if that attraction never seemed to make it into practise. Actually, for some time, Adil had simply assumed Toby never acted on his attraction because he was somewhat incredibly in love with Emma and was too busy pining after her to look elsewhere. Obviously, Adil had considered as well that Toby could be a closeted man doing his best to keep the door locked, but either way, he had never expected this.

As his words dissipate in the space between them, the air trips back out of Toby’s lungs in a shaky chuckle. “I can’t believe I’ve just told you that.”

Adil’s parents had always instilled him with endless, unconditional love and pride, and he hadn’t been ashamed when he came to terms with his sexuality, but even still, he understands the dread of this moment, the premature pain of imagined rejection. His heart kicks out in aching sympathy. “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

Toby shakes his head, looks down at his empty lap; it’s only then that he seems to notice his trousers are missing and carefully tugs the duvet over his lap to protect his modesty. “Emma knows…Well, actually, she knew before I did. She had to help me sort it all out. So I suppose, technically, you are the first person I’ve told. Congratulations, what a tremendous honour,” he says wryly.

It is an honour—even if Toby doesn’t, or can’t, believe it to be so. Coming from anyone, but especially someone as clammed up and independent as Toby, it is an undeniable, bold, flagrant display of trust, and Adil’s chest has gone warm and dizzy with it. He lays his hand over Toby’s, smiles, and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m proud of you, Toby,” he says. “And thank you. I know this must have been difficult for you, and it means a lot that you trust me enough to tell me.”

Toby stares down at their hands, his face dour; it seems like he wants to say something more, but he tears his eyes away and sets them safely on the floor once more. “Well, I figured if there was anyone I could trust with this, it would be you.” He pauses, looks over to the clock, then, pulling his hand away, he stands abruptly. “I’m terribly sorry. First I stole your night, and now I’ve gone and wasted away half your morning.”

Getting to his feet, Adil generously lets Toby play the moment down and throw it off. There’s something he’s still holding back, but despite Toby’s jumpy, seemingly uncomfortable behaviour, he looks buoyant, pleased with himself, like he’s finally managed to shift a two tonne weight off his back and stand upright for the first time in years. Adil figures they’ve accomplished more than enough for one morning.

“I’d hardly call it a waste, but how about you buy me a coffee and we’ll call it even?”

That cracks a smile out of Toby, at last. “You have yourself a deal, Mr. Joshi.”

\---

Toby’s eyes are screwed up tight against the invasive light as he studies the chalked-up menu behind the counter; the circles under his eyes are as deep as bruises, his skin is pallid, his hair is fighting a winning battle against the rough pat down with pomade he’d given it, and his mouth is stuck in a crumpled frown that says he could be sick at any moment. 

Adil had, sensibly, suggested that they simply order room service given that neither of them were quite in a fit state for being in public at the moment, but Toby had insisted that they go somewhere “proper.” Which Adil, reasonably, took to mean that Toby couldn’t bear to be alone in a room with him anymore while the reality of his confession wriggled incessantly between them, begging for attention. So here they are instead, stood in line at a forgettable, crowded chain café where Toby can safely ignore the topic altogether.

Their drinks in hand—Adil with a responsible cold brew with a dash of sugar and vanilla sweet cream and Toby with a tall cup of black coffee that isn’t going to help him half as much as he clearly wants it to—they survey the sparse seating options for only a moment before Adil takes Toby by the hand and pulls him to the door.

Hyde Park, he argues, is just steps away, the weather is atypically pleasant, and the fresh air and light exercise will do Toby some good. With only minor reluctance and a grin he can’t completely smother, Toby gives in and lets Adil pull him down the sidewalk, across the street, and through the lacklustre gate. 

It’s only then that Adil realises he’s still holding Toby’s hand and that he really ought not to be doing that and should probably let go. So he does. Except Toby doesn’t. Or not quite as quickly as Adil would have expected him to. His fingers continue to cling to Adil’s for a few tantalising seconds before they recognise that Adil has surrendered and they beat a hasty retreat, diving harshly into Toby’s pocket. 

Adil takes a sip of his coffee and doesn’t let himself think about it. 

Toby, it seems, does the same.

In the mid-morning, the park is already well on its way to being bursting with eager-eyed tourists and leisurely locals. The trees sway and rustle overhead, their dark canopies filled out, lush and summer-full, the leaves fluttering against each other in a well-practised symphony. Along the path, the benches are busy playing host to people skimming through the papers, people chatting away on their phones, and people basking, untroubled, in their carefully chosen patches of sun, their tranquil smiles turned up towards the clear sky. Already, before it has slithered into sight, the slight mildew of the sun-battered Serpentine drifts towards them, accompanied by the shrieks and laughter of raucous children, the husky barks of dogs turned loose from their leads and on the hunt, the frantic, disgruntled ruffle of the hunted birds. 

It’s one of those days, one of those moments, when Adil is so warmly aware of the world around him. When life gets into his chest and pushes out against his ribs. When he doesn’t want to waste a single second or miss a single thing. When he wants to roll up his sleeves, sit back, and just breathe.

He glances over at Toby and finds himself already being watched, closely. But no sooner does Adil look then Toby’s eyes jump up to the sky, and he takes a calculated pull from his cup, calling up that same little squicked grimace from before.

“Looks like you’re really enjoying that,” Adil teases, unable to help himself and hoping to kick out some of the lingering tension.

Toby flicks his tongue out in a rather childish gesture that Adil adores, like the air will scrape the offensive taste out of his mouth. “It tastes like pure, bitter hatred.”

“Hm, five pounds well spent.”

“I thought it would help, but I think it might actually be making it worse,” Toby says, frowning, with a looping gesture towards his head; it’s as close to a petulant whine as Adil’s ever heard him come.

“You know, I could have told you that.”

Toby blinks at him: a mockery of stunned betrayal. “And why didn’t you?”

“Well, you seemed rather keen on ignoring me at the time,” Adil answers, casual, careful; just an observation, not an accusation. Toby had hardly said a word to him in the not insignificant amount of time it had taken them to ready themselves and walk to the café. Hardly even bought himself to look in Adil’s direction either, as if Adil were some grim spectre haunting the edges of his perception.

A sunscreen-slathered family straggles by, the parents already looking strung out and ready to slouch back to their hotel. Adil shifts to the right to accommodate them, and his arm brushes, ever so slightly, against Toby’s. Toby stays quiet and dutifully follows as Adil nudges them off onto a branching path, away from the Serpentine and its noisy, nosy crowds.

“I’m sorry,” Toby says when they’re alone once more. “I didn’t mean to--I’ve just…It feels odd,” he admits, defeated and, if Adil’s not mistaken, a little bit ashamed. “I thought once it was out, once _I_ was out, I wouldn’t have to worry anymore, but now…”

“But now what?” Adil prompts gently when Toby neglects to finish his thought. It puts him curiously on edge, knocking the lazing cheer out of him. People trust Adil; it comes part and parcel with being a bartender, that malleable, pressureless charm. But he’s always made it a point to prove himself worthy of that trust to his friends at every opportunity. He can’t conceive of any reason why Toby should be worried about having come out to him, can’t imagine what he could have done to punch a hole, however big or small, in Toby’s trust. 

_Does he think I expect something of him?_ Adil asks himself. _Does he think that I’m going to set his secret loose to run rampant through the hotel, all the way up to the Royal Suite? Could he think so little of me?_

A skittish squirrel scampers across the sidewalk ahead of them, and Toby sighs. “I know it’s ridiculous, but…Well, I didn’t want you to think that, because I told you that I’m…” He gestures vaguely, the word sticking on his tongue. “I didn’t want you to think that it meant I was, you know…attracted to you.”

 _Oh_. Adil goes cold to the core in a flash. _He knows_.

Of course he knows. Adil had never really learnt how to hide his affection or disguise it into ambiguity. He loves openly and generously, like he was taught to. He ought to have realised that Toby, clever as he is— _I’ve spent my entire adult life learning how to analyse things, break them down and understand all the patterns_ —would pick up on all the ways Adil treated him differently to the rest of his friends. The lingering, the eagerness, the common crash of their fingers over a glass, the chin-on-palm interest, the heliotropic smiles: Adil isn’t exactly the enigma machine. Particularly not that morning, when he had stolen Toby into his arms as they slept.

A second thought trickles in, then: _he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. You were deluding yourself. But you already knew that, didn’t you?_

Adil bites back on the self-abasement and aims for levity. “I’m not that conceited, Toby. I wouldn’t--” 

“I know, I know.” He goes quiet again, glaring at the ground like he wishes it would open up and swallow him whole, and shakes his head. “I was just being stupid,” he says, rather heavy and melancholic for someone who ought to have had their fears assuaged.

Adil frowns at Toby’s tone. He can’t help but feel that he’s missed something, that he and Toby are talking about two completely different things. There’s something else, something that Toby is holding back, that much is clear, but whatever it is, Adil can’t even hazard a guess. He’s never had this much difficulty reading anyone before, let alone Toby, who, for all his aloof nature, is not good at all at keeping his emotions off his face. But now, there’s such a tangle mixed up in his downcast gaze, in his downturned lips, that Adil isn’t sure where to begin piecing it apart.

So he decides to just ask. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. At least, not a real one. But Toby’s shoulders drop, and his eyes close, and he breathes deep.

“Can we sit down for this?” He asks, one last weary request before surrender.

They take up on the nearest bench, and Adil doesn’t miss the way Toby places his coffee down between them, making it into a potentially scalding barrier. Nor does he miss Toby’s fingers, twisting, twisting, twisting the heavy ring on his pinky. Nor Toby’s knee, bouncing up and down in a jagged, ill-paced jig.

“You don’t have to tell me, Toby. If you’re not comfortable.” 

“No…No, I think I have to say this. I’ve already come halfway, and…I think I very well might burst if I don’t finish it out.” 

Toby looks well and truly frightened, enough to infect Adil with nerves of his own. What could possibly be so unspeakable that Toby is this afraid to tell him? Half a dozen nightmare scenarios scrape through his mind in rapid succession, each worse than the last. His thirst momentarily wiped away from consideration, he wraps both clammy hands around his sweating drink, syphoning its chilly relief, and he waits as patiently as he can.

“Look…I don’t--I don’t want to make this…weird. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to ruin that, but--God, I don’t know how to say this.” 

His eyes flit around like he’s worried about catching out some nefarious figure lurking about and listening in, and his cheeks grow ruddier with every second.

It hits Adil abruptly, what this is: the definitive, unambiguous rejection. Adil hadn’t taken his hint seriously enough; he’d brushed it off, so now Toby’s going to do this the hard, extremely uncomfortable way, spell it out in broad daylight and rip away any plausible deniability. Adil’s stomach turns, and his neck burns with lead-heavy humiliation.

“Adil…” Toby takes his time, wading through the sounds of Adil’s name like he wants to remember how they sounded before his tongue was changed by what is coming next. Adil’s thankful for it, though it’s torture, like seeing the bomb falling through the air and just waiting for it to smash the peace to bits. “The thing is…I…I like you. I like you a lot. More than I should. You’re just so-- _Wonderful_ and smart and handsome, and whenever I’m around you, I feel like I can’t breathe but in a good way, and every time you smile at me I think my heart’s going to explode, and I want to kiss you so much, but I know you don’t want that from me, and I know it’s entirely inconvenient, and believe me, I’m trying my best not to feel like this, but--”

It all slips out in a hurry, and Adil can only try to keep up as heady, confused relief surges in his chest. He feels as if he’s been flipped upside down. Or perhaps he had been upside down and now he’s right side up. Either way, he can hardly believe the words slipping from Toby’s mouth. In the past twenty-four hours, it seems like he’s gone back and forth a hundred times, wondering what, if anything, Toby feels for him. To finally have a definitive answer, an answer Adil had only ever allowed himself to dream of: it’s dizzying.

Shaking his head, he lays a placating hand on Toby’s jittery knee; like a switch had been flipped, Toby falls still and silent immediately. 

“Toby,” Adil says through a buoyant smile and a quiet, delighted laugh. “Weren’t you just telling me that you weren’t attracted to me?” He can’t help but tease him, just a little.

“No, I told you I didn’t want you to _think_ I was,” Toby mumbles to his clenched hands sitting in his lap. “There’s a difference.”

He can’t, not here in the middle of Hyde Park for anyone in the world to see, but Adil wants to kiss Toby. Very badly. Instead, he settles on reaching out and tilting Toby’s chin up from its dejected slump and giving him the softest smile he has.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

Toby’s face scrunches up with exceptional confusion. “Is it?”

“Considering the fact that I’ve fancied you since the day that I met you?” Adil doesn’t bother to stifle his laugh as Toby’s eyes go wide as the moon. “Yes, yes, it is.”

Slowly, as the information settles in his ever-whirling mind, Toby smiles, bright enough to put out the sun.

\---

As they ascend the narrow, angular stairs that lead to Adil’s flat, Toby could just about burst from the sheer amount of anticipation and pure joy blooming in his chest. It seems he has come a million miles from where he stood yesterday, in front of The Halcyon’s steps, weighed down with exhaustion and expectations. Even just a day ago, he could have never imagined this: Adil’s soft and sure hand held in his own, the knowledge of their reciprocated feelings running like a livewire between them.

All too soon, Adil’s door stands before them, cold and solid, waiting to split them apart. Not for the first time, Toby wishes he could forget the obligatory tea with his mother and brother. The hour he and Adil spent on that park bench, airing out all the things they’d waited years to say, had hardly been enough. But Toby can’t cancel on his family without raising devastatingly perceptive suspicion, and besides, as Adil suggested, a little time to digest everything wouldn’t hurt, so he accepts the necessary severance with reluctant grace and plans to meet for lunch the next day.

Before he can leave, though, Adil’s hands find his waist and pull him in. 

Kissing Adil is…revolutionary. He feels it, from his head down to his toes, lighting up every nerve in his body, setting them to singing in long-awaited euphoria. The press of Adil’s lips against his is so simple, so mundane, and yet it may as well be magic. The pieces he has named but held at bay drop seamlessly into place, and a rosy wave of peace washes over him. This feels _right_. It feels right, and Toby could almost cry with relief, much in the way a man who has lived his entire life in a cave might fall to his knees and sob upon finally seeing the stars.

It is shaping up to be a rather heavenly summer after all.


End file.
